


Healing Hands

by vaultbug



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Found Family, Gen, Isolation, Suicidal Ideation, more like forced family everyone's moving into oro's house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug
Summary: At the edge of the Kingdom, Oro finds the corpse of a warrior fallen from grace. As respite for his own past failings, he takes it upon himself to heal the broken spirit.What he doesn't expect is the idiot to bring every moron in Hallownest flocking to his door.This is why he can't have nice things.
Relationships: Hive Knight & Tiso (Hollow Knight), Nailmaster Oro & Tiso, Quirrel & Tiso (Hollow Knight), The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 218





	1. Chapter 1

At his common resting grounds was where Oro found the body.

Not that he could’ve missed it. It sat sprawled directly across his walking route, blue armour and hood drastically contrasting the ashen ground that even if he pretended not to see it he would’ve bumped into it anyways. Stretched out, it reached for a battered shield at the edge of the rock. A nasty crack lined its chitin from hip to chest.

Oro stared at it as if it had spat in his face.

Corpses normally didn’t fall in this direction. A rock ledge far above where he stood made sure of that, interrupting the falling bugs and usually causing the dead carapaces from the coliseum to shatter or redirect into the acid far below. Yet this bug was here. He must’ve dragged himself or was unfortunately lucky to hit the soft ground and slowly die from the impact.

It was quite inconvenient.

Oro suddenly had the mental image of shifting the corpse to the side. He had no respect for those who tossed their lives at attempts of glory but that did not mean he did not admire a bug who may have potentially dragged themselves away from the acid to die on their own terms. That was warrior spirit. He could at least grant them a resting spot away from the path.

He bent down to move the corpse. His hand settled on its shoulder.

The corpse flinched.

Oro closed his eyes. Counted to ten, as if to will the sprawled bug far, far away where the burden of life would rest onto another’s shoulders. But the gods had never intervened on Oro’s behalf before and when he opened them back up the bug before him was moving now, painfully slow and at the edge of consciousness. Their eyes, although closed, twitched as if the bug was struggling with the slightest attempt to open them.

He could leave them. He could simply walk away and ignore them. The other route was still applicable, although it stretched much longer and drew him closer to the irritating chuckle of that caterpillar. This strange warrior he could put to the back of his mind and seal it away to wither like the rest.

He stared at the salvageable life.

Then, with a sigh that spoke decades of exhaustion, Oro switched his nail to his non-dominant hand and hoisted the bug up, over his shoulder. Their chitin was dangerously thin, enough that his entire hand could easily wrap around the entirety of their waist. His nail weighed more than them. Faintly he wondered if they would begin to bleed if he moved them around too much and grimaced at the thought. He could only hope the bug wouldn't.

He adjusted his grip. The bug lurched, a full-body thrash, and one leg stirred as if to kick him in the face. “Quit squirming,” he muttered aloud without thought.

“Shield,” the bug gasped back.

He froze. He didn’t hear it as much as he felt it, the brush of air against his neck that caused an involuntary shiver to fill him, all the way up his horns. Wetness filled the voice as if the bug was speaking through a mouth of blood. Like listening to death itself speak, whisper gently in his ear.

(and yet)

He hadn’t heard the taste of words from another in _so_ long.

"Please." The voice was so faint. He could feel the bug’s hand trembling now and he felt their stress -- strained muscles, wound tight in their carapace as if they were fighting their exhaustion just to stop him. “ My,” the bug rasped again and then coughed again, a wet sound that shook their whole body. 

“Great,” Oro said. If his voice quavered with the word, none would hear it. “You talk.”

The bug heaved air on his shoulder. Oro waited for a response. “Shield,” they insisted again.

Shield? He looked back to where he grabbed them. The broken shield laid there, abandoned and when he drew closer to pluck it up the bug relaxed. Sudden vexation filled him, an irritation at being treated like a waddling servant of the city. _You save them and this?_ something whispered in him. _Everyone asks for more.  
_

He ignored the voice. “And so the carcass demands,” he remarked to the bug on his shoulder. His voice was rough from disuse and the usual sourness he poured into it cracked around the edges because of it. “Half of me has mind to let you rot with the ash.” 

The bug took another breath so close against his neck. This time Oro didn’t shiver, but no one would fault his hand for its twitch. "Don't -- go," mumbled the delirious bug. It was louder now, grating on his nerves. "Please, my shield -- I can -- make you proud, _please,_ I --"

 _Oh, bother._ He bent down and snatched the useless trinket up. "Now will you quiet?" He snapped.

The bug's mumbling hushed to a lull even the wind couldn't hear.

Oro grumbled. He harrumphed and groused. But the bug did not say any more and he found himself without excuses to stay. With one last complaint under breath, he flicked the ash off the shield and tucked it under his arm. "Gladiators," he muttered as if it explained everything.

And off down the path they went.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A merry introduction.

Oro did not count the days after he brought his unwanted house-guest into his hold. Simply put, he did not have time to process the time. The bug (who he quickly learned was an ant of strong build) soon took all his hours and patience of the day. In his haste to bring the corpse from the grave he had forgotten how irritatingly dedicated one had to be to a small bug's health, especially a male ant as tender as this one. If he was tending Mato -- if it was his brothers that he cared for after injury, all it would require was a patch-up and nagging for the remaining week. This ant's health fluctuated just on warmth and water intake. He almost lost him twice to the cold alone.

Oro considered many times just propping his body up and using him as a newer punching bag.

Though he would be a rather small bag.

He kept at it though. Fluke forbid he let a little thing like commitment deter him. If there was one thing Oro prided himself on, it was his headstrong, cankerous devotion he had nurtured since he was a grub. To yield now would be pathetic surrender.

Days passed. His routine, utterly destroyed, soon devolved around his house-guest. He pounded paste and sealed the ant's cracks up thrice daily. Twice he fought with the bug’s thrashing nightmares until the front of his gloves grew stained with glue and blood from holding the delirious bug down. The ant did not die under his care, but he did not get better.

 _Soon_ , he thought every time he heard the bug gasp for air under his hands. _He will wake up soon._

Until then, Oro waited and watched.

* * *

He assumed a week passed. It was enough time that the ash at his windows grew thick enough he was forced to go outside and swipe it off just to see. The corner of his hut gathered blankets, insulation and shell to protect his patient from the ashen wind outside. The ant shifted and broke into fever, and eventually the crack on his shell slowly scabbed up with Oro's coaxing.

But he did not wake.

It was about the fourth day into the fever when he broke his silence. "Bastard," he told the broken bug, his voice strained with frustration. "I know you're alive. Wake up."

The bug did not respond. Today was one of the luckier days. Sometimes he thrashed and beat his limbs around, and Oro had to hold him down until they were both flushed and tired. It was those days he had to clean the blood from his palms.

"Wake up," he insisted again. "You've cost me enough of my time."

Not even a peep, a twitch of the antenna. If Oro was not feeling the ant's pulse through his carapace, it would be easy to assume he was dead. 

"Hmph. Greedy twit." He dabbed the scab down with the sealing glue, watched white paste settle into the blue cracks of the bug's carapace. "What more do you want from me? A lullaby? A prayer? You'd have better luck finding it among the dead."

The ant stirred a little at that. His face scrunched, blatantly naked without the hood. Oro let him move and when he settled, he continued at the chest. "If this goes on for another week I shall throw you out and let you die,” he announced to the quiet hut. “Maybe then the hoppers would lurk farther from my doorstep."

The threat settled on deaf ears.

Oro hummed tonelessly and rubbed the excess paste off his fingers.

 _Wake up_ , he thought. _At least give me that._

* * *

Nearly ten days later the bug finally did.

Oro noticed as soon as the bug's carapace stiffened among the blankets. He did not see the hands moving -- but he heard blankets shift, the creaking of the wooden bed as the bug rose. His gaze, fixed on the doorway, ignored the shadows at the corner of his hut until they grew too large to ignore any farther. Then, swallowing his growing nervousness, he waited for the bug to make the first move. Flukes take him if the ant expected him to guide them gently up by the hand through their injury.

He did not. The bug shot up from the makeshift bed all on his own, half a scream ripping out of his throat. Both his hands threw over his head, as if trying to protect himself from someone falling at him from above. As Oro watched the movement tore at the bug’s chest and the ant fell backwards again, hissing in agony as he gripped the sheets. One of his hands pressed against his wound and drew away with paste attached.

 _I just applied that_ , Oro objected internally, but quieted his complaints.

The bug was quite still after that. He was still alive -- Oro could hear him breathing, gasps and all -- but after that dramatic introduction the silence felt almost offensive. He assumed it came from shock. The ant had not moved his hand, eyes locked into the empty space between his paste-coated fingers. Nearly a minute passed until the fingers finally twitched and the bug slowly rose up to stand at the edge of the cot. He was taking good care not to wound himself further, Oro noticed. That was good. He’d rather not clean blood off the sheets again.

"And so the carcass awakes," he greeted.

The bug went ramrod stiff, antennas perked nearly vertical to the ceiling and his entire body jerked towards his voice. Oro would've found the sight ridiculous, except that the ant had fallen into a familiar fighting stance, fists up and all. _Oh, bugger_ , something in him groaned. “Who are you supposed to be?” The ant snapped immediately, barely a croak but enraged nevertheless. “Where am I?” 

Which was...not the welcome Oro had anticipated. The words he rehearsed (which had gone along the lines of _I'm not going to hurt you, you're welcome, be glad I didn't charge you, get out_ ) faded out of existence and was replaced by the dawning sense of a headache. What a fool he was to bring this bug here. What a nuisance this idiot was going to be.

The ant was still talking. "Who are you?" He continued. "Did you kidnap me? Why am I not at the coliseum?"

Oro had the sudden, vivid urge to take the bug and throw him out by the antennae. Instead he settled for a long, weighty glare across the space between them. "You give much thanks to the one who saved you," he said, the words almost growling. "Not that I'm surprised."

The bug -- who looked still very fragile by Oro's standards -- glared back. Oro would admit begrudging appreciation for that, but he'd say it was the admiration a bug would give another if one had walked up and started taunting the mantis-kin. "Who are you?" He snapped again. "Where am I?" A pause, and then the ant's gaze fell on the shield at Oro's lap. "Give me that," he demanded.

Oro endured the insults. Then he drew one hand out of his cloak and touched the rim of the shield. The bug staggered forward at that, outrage blossoming across his features. "Give me that," he repeated, hands curled. “That’s _mine_.”

"Hrmph. And why should I?" Oro asked. He laced his words heavy with sarcasm and watched the bug's face turn red. "At the edge of the world I saved you and no law dictates I cannot claim tribute for my kindness." He tapped the shield twice, just to make a point.

One of the ant's antennas was trembling. The bug took one step across the floor, ignoring the way the movement ripped at his cracks. "Why, I oughta --"

Ah. That was enough taunting for one day. He rose then, a quick movement that had him across the room in mere seconds. The injured bug barely had time to react before Oro plucked him up with one hand and deposited him into the bed in one movement. It was ridiculously easy. What made it satisfying was the splutter the bug gave as he thrashed against the sheets and a curse to distant gods echoed up at him. "Why, you --!"

"If you do not stop squirming I will pin you to this bed with my nail and undo all my hard work," Oro snarled. He squeezed the wrists of the bug once, just to make good on the threat.

The bug thrashed twice more and then, panting heavily, fell quite limp. After a few seconds had passed, Oro stepped back, letting his hands fall in the process. That earned him another glare, but thankfully his house-guest only rubbed at his wrists. “You’re a twit,” he spat up at him.

“And you should be thankful, little ingrate,” Oro growled back. “I could’ve left you to rot at that acid pool. Yet here you are, much alive.”

“I didn’t ask,” the ant argued. His voice rose in higher pitches the more he got angry and it reminded Oro so much of a grub he nearly sighed aloud. “You took me here!”

“So you would have rather died?”

The ant said nothing then, though he bared his mandibles in clear dislike. Oro let him marinate in that discomfort before letting out an amused snort. "Hrmph. Thought so. Now stay still."

The bug tensed up, fists up again. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, for the love of --" He leaned over and pressed the hands of the bug firmly into his lap. "If I wanted to hurt you," he snarled, "I would've left you to die at the pools. Now. Do you intend to be taken as a fool? Or do you want me to re-apply the medicine you took off your chest?"

The ant wavered. Then he relaxed, a forced motion that reeked of distaste. Oro hummed in triumph and stood up to fetch the paste, leaving him to squirm in the blankets.

"You still haven't told me your name," the bug called after him.

Oro paused. "Call me one of your aphids."

"Very funny."

There was silence then as Oro rummaged for the medicine. For a second he thought the ant was behaving -- then he turned and caught the bug ogling the large spider-kin mask that poked out from behind his velvet curtains. A wicked gleam had entered his eyes.

Bother. Oro thought he had gotten rid of that with the rest of his trophies. "Don't even start," he warned.

The ant ignored him. "You a warrior?" His voice was noticeably impressed.

"You from the coliseum?"

That puffed the little ant up. He sat a little taller in his makeshift bed, obviously fit with pride. "I came here for the coliseum," he announced boldly. "Seeking a challenge, a fit match for my skill." His gaze then passed over Oro, brave. Oro despised every second it flicked over his carapace. "You must know what it's like, seeking the violence. It fills the blood of warriors. It makes us who we are."

"Spoken like a true fanatic," Oro said.

The ant deflated. "What?” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you lost your taste for battle? For the kill?”

"Hmph." Oro drew closer with the paste. "Killing is a chore, like any other. Why should I take delight in it?"

The ant blinked. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Clearly the concept of a fighter who disliked killing short-circuited his brain to the point where speech stalled. Oro would roll his eyes if he wasn’t busy trying to move the bug’s hands away from his torso to get at his wound. “Why?” the bug eventually spluttered. “You -- You’re asking me why?”

“I’m not asking you anything.” Oro grunted. “I’ve heard enough of the prattle that leaks down from upstairs. Your lot is an offense to any sensible warrior with his wits intact. Violence and pride are the first things that get beaten out of any respectable fighter.”

The ant made a noise like a kettle steaming. His face was slowly turning crimson, a colour that drew up to the tips of his antennas. Whatever thoughts were going through his mind must’ve been overboiling, Oro figured, because the ant couldn’t seem to start any sentences intelligibly. Finally, the bug spat, “I’ll make you regret those words,” and lunged up at him, aiming directly for eye-sockets.

Oro took his hand and shoved the bug by the head straight back into the blankets.

There was a lot of muffled yelling then. A hand reached up and weakly grabbed at his cloak; Oro let it, because there really wasn’t much the ant could do except clutch at the fabric. “Are you done?” He asked as he eyed the paste bucket in his other hand just in case the thrashing limbs went in that direction. The bug under his fingers kicked a few more times. “This paste will dry eventually and I’ll use you to crush the next batch if you don’t let me apply it.”

“ _Hngh,_ ” the ant yelled up at him. “You -- _bastard --!_ Let me _go!”_

“Hmph. Will you stay still? Or must I knock you out?”

The threat lingered in the air. Finally, the ant stopped thrashing and as Oro rolled his eyes, the bug crossed his arms and huffed despite the hand covering his face. “Fine,” the ant gritted out. “Let me up.”

A part of Oro’s instincts told him it was a lie. But he backed up anyway and let the ant’s face go and the ant sprang up like his legs had caught fire. One hand shoved his carapace and tried to squeeze by, while the ant ducked under him and tried to make it for the door. He didn’t make it even a step before Oro took him by the shoulder and tugged. The momentum snagged, the ant yanked back and then he was out on his back, dazed and confused.

Oro let him groan as he sat down next to him with the paste bucket.“You shouldn’t have done that,” he tsked the bug when it seemed the ant's stupor had quelled. “Your wounds are barely healed. Do not try that again and do not try to escape.”

“You -- must've kidnapped me,” the ant stuttered. “Why -- can’t I leave?”

"Kidnap? No. I couldn't care less if you left," Oro droned. "Neither would I cry if a hopper crushed you alive the moment you stepped outside my territory. But if you mean to insult me by undoing my handiwork with your suicidal intentions, you may as well challenge me to a duel."

The bug fell silent. His eyes found him and locked on, burning. Oro regretted his words instantaneously.

"What's your name?" The bug asked through gritted mandibles.

 _Oh, for the love of --_ “Do you intend to use it wisely?” 

The bug was full of glares today. It was half-amusing. In his memory Oro recalled the ants of the city had not been all this explosive. “How I use it is my concern alone,” his patient spat. “So?”

He deliberated on the sentence. The ant watched expectantly. "I am Nailmaster Oro," he said eventually.

"Then, Nailmaster Oro, I challenge you to a duel." The bug quivered as he rose from the floor. His finger trembled out of strain. "I, Tiso, will mark your final opponent for your days for your insults -- _ay, watch it! Hey!_ "

Oro ignored his protests and smeared the paste up his chest, until it coated right under the chin of the ant. Briefly he considered flicking it onto the bug’s face but those antics were for grubs and he was above that behaviour. “Your name is Tiso?” He asked.

Tiso looked suddenly lost, although he kept on a brave face. "Yes.”

“Hmph. Good. I know what name to label my shield then.”

That riled him up. Tiso turned red. The finger came up again. “That shield is _mine_ and I will not lose it to --!"

He swatted the finger down. “Pipe down,” he grunted. “I liked you better unconscious.”

Tiso goggled. His lips mouthed words. His antennas grated against each other ferociously, carrying on until Oro wondered if he would skin the chitin off them in his fury. Eventually, his voice a thin line of fury, squawked, “How -- How dare --”

"Yes. How dare I." With exaggerated hostility, he stood back up. "Now shut up and rest before I knock you out myself. And if I find you outside, I will nail you to this bed myself."

Tiso snapped his mouth closed, and shut up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oro and Tiso get along.

Tiso, Oro learned quickly, was loud. 

Which he did _anticipate_ after such an aberrant introduction, but _anticipate_ and _tolerate_ were two very different definitions on opposing sides of a spectrum and Oro had never been very good at the latter. To be frank, the ant’s noise simply drove Oro up the wall. It was like Tiso could not stay quiet. If the ant was not talking, he was moving about his bed, and if not that, he was drumming his fingers in beats that were reminiscent of the coliseum’s marching bands. The _pitapat_ of his fingers resounded like a pounding headache. Oro could not meditate with the relentless tapping of digits on his floor that grated through his mind.

Like now. The ant’s fingers drummed relentlessly on the floor; Oro pressed his face into his hands and counted between breaths, until _one, two_ became _fifty, fifty-one._ Only then did he snap off his tally and raise his head to level a glare at the ant. 

Tiso did not notice. He continued to drum his fingers, _pitapat_ echoing through the hut. Half a hum caught in the bug’s throat, as if stridulating. Oro could hear the words of the song as if they were ablaze in his brain.

( _fool fool Fool Fool --!_ )

He cleared his throat. Tiso startled, and the hum cut off. Turning, the ant stared at him. Oro stared back. There was a long moment of silence.

Then Tiso started to drum his fingers again.

His patience snapped like a thin branch. "Have you ever heard of the word quiet?" Oro shot across the room.

Tiso blinked back. “Seldom acquainted,” he replied with such ease that Oro wondered if it was rehearsed. “True warriors strive for conflict, not serenity. A terrible day is one that goes by mellow and peaceful.” There was a smile in his words as he said so. 

Oro thought about asking him where the hell he was finding a place of mild peace in the dying rot of this Kingdom. He held those thoughts and let them burn in his throat, choosing to ignore the bug’s response to go back to his meditation. If he was lucky, Tiso would get the hint and shut up.

Tiso did not. “What are you doing anyways?” He snorted. The fingers went _pitapat_. 

Oro waited a while and when it became apparent Tiso’s noise would not stop, answered with a sharp, “Meditating.”

Another snort. “Eh. Meditation. I see no appeal to letting your body rot away like that.” 

Oro took the jibe with silence. He saw through the ant’s mockery -- it was only to bring attention to himself and he likened it to youthful antics of mischief. After all, a voice in Oro’s mind said, he’s _bored_. You understand that, don’t you? Sitting here, holding onto pieces of master’s teachings and growing tired of bemoaning yourself. You’re no better. 

(And you haven’t talked to anyone in _so_ long.)

But he refused to respond. The attitude of the bug forewarned him misery if he motivated the ant’s taunts. 

Quiet dragged on for a few moments. Then, Tiso shuffled about the blankets, fabric scratching upon chitin in rough strokes. The noise was comparable to dragging a nail across hardened stone. Once readjusted, the ant proclaimed, “I, for one, hardly saw the need in meditation.”

Oro closed his eyes and thought: _it shows._

“My mind requires no tuning or pointless improvements.”

_Because nothing is there._

“Hmm. You’re ignoring me. I can tell. Come now, captor, enlighten me with your teachings. Has no one taught you to entertain your prisoners?”

_You could kick him out. It would be easy._

“What is meditation, then? A means to ignore others? A hermit’s excuse for solitude?”

_So easy._

“Or are you hiding? Some display of comfort for yourself?”

Oro’s hand twitched.

“Pathetic. Retreating in your mind won’t solve the problems around you.”

He could not let that slide. “Cease your tongue,” Oro growled across the room.

“And the stump speaks!” Tiso jeered. “You brutes require sticks to respond, eh?”

“Perhaps I should remind you which one of us is uninjured, carcass.”

Tiso leaned back in his blanket. Although the movement seemed casual, Oro read traces of minor alarm in the bug’s brow. “Such a grump,” he half-muttered, shut his eyes and went to drum his fingers again.

The irritation sparked into fire. Oro found himself moving before he noticed his own reaction, and by the time he registered control over his unconsciousness, he was already hovering over where Tiso sat. His shadow fell upon the ant’s face and Tiso’s eyes opened almost comically fast; then, with a noise Oro could only describe as a _squeak_ , the ant suddenly became a flurry of limbs and blankets. Oro was hit with a blanket right between the eyes, and hit with the weakest of kicks at his middle. Another kick came but he caught it before it hit. It was then paralysis hit the ant, and Oro watched the bug crumple, hands over his head. “No,” the bug pleaded. “I -- I --”

Oro reached over and --

( _kill him)_

\-- and ripped his nail from behind Tiso in its holster against the wall, drawing it to his side with a flick. Tiso remained crunched, still quivering like a leaf, and in Oro’s chest a smidge of contentment lingered at the sight. Point made, he let go of the bug and turned. 

There was silence, then the blankets started shifting again. “Wait, w-where are you going?” Tiso stuttered. His voice was very meek.

“Somewhere where I do not hear your blubbering,” Oro said back and left the hut.

* * *

He was only halfway through his training when he heard the tell-tale shifting of ash and even then he took an additional two minutes to wrap up his blows before turning back to his hut. To a wandering traveller nothing would seem amiss with the sight: but Oro knew the area around his hut like it was his own prison and nothing could slip past him unnoticed. "I sense you, carcass," he called out between the stalagmites. “Come out.”

The surroundings stayed hushed. That was fine. Oro could oblige an occasional game of predator and prey. “If you intend to escape,” he continued, “You’re going the wrong way.”

That brought him out. Tiso limped from the closest stalagmite, hobbling along the path as if his left leg had grown stiff. Oro knew the cause immediately upon inspection: the bug’s side was soaked with ash and caked blood, revealing that the idiot most likely tripped and fell in his attempted escape. In one hand the ant gripped his dented shield with protective vigour. 

Ah. A sense of begrudging appreciation of Tiso’s tricks rose in him, but Oro pushed it away into a small internal box. Releasing a breath he did not realize he was holding, he whipped his nail around and sank it into the soft soil. “So,” he rumbled. “That was your plan?”

Tiso flinched and scuffed his foot into the ash.

Oro continued. “You annoy me from my home with taunts and insults; then, have the audacity to _flee_ like a spineless maggot with my possessions as soon as I turn my back? Are you a warrior or thief, carcass?”

That brought flame to the ant's tongue. "This shield is _mine_ ,” Tiso defended. “And I didn’t --”

“You _didn’t ask to be healed_ , yes, I’ve heard your excuses. I have half the mind to gut you where you stand for your continual insults to my patience.”

Tiso turned a pale white and took another step back. The shield rose defensively, trembling. 

Gods forbid. Oro slipped a hand onto his temple and rubbed. Huffing, he said, “Get back to the hut. You’re sick and I can smell the rot on you from where you fell.” 

That hit Tiso just as hard as his nail would’ve. The ant wobbled where he stood, like a fish bobber on a smooth lake. “What?” 

“You should be resting,” Oro said. “Do not test my generosity by making me drag you there myself.”

“What?” Tiso repeated, a little louder now. The ant’s colour was starting to return to his face now, although it was still shades lighter than it should be. “You want me to -- you’re not going to -- _Ah_ ,” and the ant relaxed, a full-body movement that made him seem almost jelly. As if to save face, the ant added hastily. “I-it’s not like I _could_ rest. You make so much racket I doubt a mushroom could sleep through your blows.”

Oro thought: _hypocritical bastard._ But he kept those thoughts, stowed his annoyance and ripped his nail back up from the ground. Tiso again flinched, but no blow carved his chitin in two. Instead Oro turned back to his training dummy, ignoring the ant. “Fine,” he said. “You are welcome to stay out here then. The Hoppers could always use your corpse as a toothpick.”

There was silence. Oro assumed the bug must’ve been weighing the consequences of a response. How surprising. His fall must’ve wounded the ant more than he thought. "You insult me,” the ant said eventually. A little confidence had crept back in his voice. “I shall not fall by a Hopper.”

“You’re right,” Oro replied. He tested the weight of his nail, slashed experimentally a few times. “You’d fall slain to a crawlid.”

There was a huff and then. “I would _not_ ,” Tiso’s voice said at his side and a hand latched onto his shoulder and _tugged_. 

Something stalled in Oro’s chest, like a flicker of -- of _what_ , Oro could not tell, because it was gone as quick as it came. Tiso’s hand was a burning ember on his carapace and he found himself frozen by it, muted by such a pointed gesture. How long had it been since someone had dared to touch him so casually? Sheo? Master? Or was it memories of Mato, jovial laughter as he ruffled Oro’s head before leaving their shop? Flicking geo at each other between shifts? Playful punches, swats to move each other out of the way. Such casual gestures. Such priceless moments.

(and _You_ have the audacity to _Miss_ it, after _Everything_ you _Did_ )

He blinked twice. Whatever madness possessed him shattered, and he was faced with Tiso’s confused expression. At that he narrowed his eyes, steeled the inflexible stubbornness he hoarded over these years and batted the hand off. It was almost a relief how rapidly Tiso snatched it back. “Leave me to my training,” he said and prided himself on how unshaken he sounded. “If you must stay out here, find someone else to torment.”

Tiso squinted. The bug still didn’t look convinced at his act -- if anything, he looked more suspicious. “And if I don’t?”

 _Gods take him._ Oro lowered his nail. “I should charge you for every second you argue with me,” he said to the training dummy’s mask. “I’d be rich beyond measure.”

Tiso snorted. “You can’t do that.”

“That so?” He huffed. “500 Geo.”

That got him a laugh. “Now that’s just outrageous -- !”

“600.”

“Excuse --”

“700.”

“Seven hundred -- what _? Excuse me_ ? Are you charging me for _speaking_?”

“800 and no. I am charging you for arguing.” Oro said. “It just happens that every word that draws breath in your mouth is ludicrously confrontational.”

Tiso stared. For a second Oro was sure he was going to stamp his feet and charge at him like some rampaging baldur, but he was disappointed by the gladiator’s own sickness for Tiso just swayed on the spot. “ _Hmmmmm_ ,” the ant raged, something that sounded more like the grate of a wasp than a coinciding agreement. “I’ll show you _confrontational_ \--”

“Threats double the price. 1600.” Oro said. “By all means, carcass, continue. I’m intrigued to see how far you’ll take this."

Tiso grated his mandibles. “This is ridiculous,” his guest finally groused. “I don’t even have _geo_.” 

_What._ Oro turned on him so quickly Tiso squeaked again and raised his shield. “You don’t have geo.” He said without tone. 

“No?”

A sort of horror was rising in his chest now, one that Oro had not felt for a long time. “You wear the blue of expensive material. You’ve gone to the coliseum, which _requires_ geo,” he said back and closed the distance between them to thumb the bug’s shell. “Why don’t you have geo?”

“What? Why _?_ ” The ant sounded confused. “I don’t have geo because I almost _died_! For someone so insistent on that little detail, you seem to be forgetting that now. Corpses don’t carry _allowances_.”

The horror reared its head higher in his chest. All the ant’s behaviour from before suddenly made _sense_. “Do you not have any storage of geo?” He asked, seeking denial, anything. “A familial link to it?”

Tiso shook his head.

“Not even an account to withdraw from?”

“There are banks in this waste of a kingdom?” 

His master would have throttled Tiso at this point. Oro was a much kinder pupil and merely groaned aloud. “I healed a peasant,” he said to the ceiling of the glade, perhaps where the benevolent gods who sent him this idiot were busy laughing at him. “The coliseum I could’ve forgiven. The noise I could’ve stood. But you sent me a _peasant_.” 

“Okay, _hey_ ,” Tiso interrupted. The ant staggered around his front to face him, snapping his fingers as he did so. Oro begrudgingly ripped his glare away from the ceiling to him. “Is this what this is? Did you intend to _charge me_ for taking care of you?”

“No,” Oro said.

The ant’s shoulders squared. “Alright. Then why did you save me?”

Oro hesitated. 

“Oh my gods,” Tiso said and took a step back.

 _Pests of fluke take him._ “You are misunderstanding my intentions,” Oro said, strain in his tone.

“I am understanding them perfectly,” Tiso replied. There was laughter in his voice, though without malice and highly strained. Hysteria, likely. Oro recognized it from the bugs of the city. “So this is your side-gig! You’re down here, isolated from society because it’s profitable. Warriors like me go up to the coliseum and then you pluck any survivors and charge them for care. _Nailmaster -- no,_ you’re like a -- a _reverse_ undertaker.”

Oro found himself rubbing his eyes again. “Are you done with your accusations?” He asked.

“Hardly!” It was hysteria talking now. Tiso was swaying as he spoke and the paleness was back in his cheeks. Oro suppressed every curse in his mind and waited for the bug to, inevitably, pass out. “What, do you have a business in this art? Are you a medic, fired from the city? Or maybe you _despise_ the coliseum because they fired you. Ha! Giant brute, I wouldn’t have pegged you as such with your temper."

"Cease your tongue before I remove it," Oro said into his hand.

Tiso did not. Though, Oro suspected, whatever rational thought the bug possessed had been suspended by his panic. "Bah. You wouldn't. Not unless you plan to charge me for the operation?" The bug almost swayed back that time. "Or perhaps you'll charge more for speaking? In that case, I’m already at 1600, let’s add some more threats to make it to 10,000! Or how about our duel? Let’s fight then, if you take offense. Come now. Fight --”

Natural causes worked too slow. Tired, Oro took the blade of his nail and swatted down with his hilt.

The blow wasn’t harsh. Citizens of the city punched harder than the weight he put behind it. It did the trick all the same. Tiso went down like a crumpled sack of goods, but before he hit the ground Oro caught his waist. His weight was heavier than last time Oro did this, but not by much. With little effort he hoisted the bug underarm, and snatched up his nail with the other.

Then he paused. Casting one more glance at the bug under his arm, Oro grumbled. “A peasant,” he scoffed to the glade. “Why is it always the poor that decide to stay?”

Not even the wind answered his protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll have to forgive my delays, university has unfortunately picked up.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. ^^ next up: tiso falls off a roof


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiso dreams. Oro is bugged by an aspiring pupil.

He was dying. 

Flayed, struck prone on the ground. Over him the Mawlek -- _the Beast_ \-- was salivating, orange spit drooling over its teeth and onto Tiso's lap. One hooked claw was pressed into his chest, slowly inching its way down, and he could feel his carapace give way as if it was made of cloth. Acid popped and hissed against his twitching hands. His mouth was filled with sickness.

"You died here," the Beast said to him, cruel words in crude tongue. "You know you did."

"I did not die," Tiso said back, a mantra. He flexed his fingers numbly, felt acid pool in his palms. "You got lucky. I could've beaten you."

The Beast twisted and in its dim, mindless eyes, malicious curiosity seemed to rise. "Perhaps," it admitted. "Yet you lost."

"You had advantage," Tiso spat back. The claw pressed forward another inch and he felt carapace give until he could feel its tip in him, guts curling around its weight. "I was recovering when you jumped me, it was not fair --!"

"You can't excuse your failure," the Beast whispered and its voice was like fire, dry starving fire that would never be sated. Tiso looked into its eyes and saw orange glow, so sweet in colour he could almost taste it in his mouth. "You died to me, a beast with barely half a wit to its name."

"I did not die," he shot back, but he wasn't so sure now with sharp daggers of pain accompanying every word. "I'm alive, I survived --"

"Like how I survived?" The Beast growled; its voice was familiar now, a voice he didn't want to hear, couldn't hear. But when Tiso tried not to listen he heard it anyways, as gentle as he remembered them. "You didn't look up, Tiso."

The cries of the Coliseum screamed higher.

"Where's my shield?" Tiso snarled to it. "You took my shield; give me it and I'll show you."

The Beast purred. "You have it."

He did have it. Had it for a long time ever since, ever since they had. He closed that thought away. Taken good care of it, made sure no scratches dinged its surface or any other misfortune. Taken care of it like it was his. And now it was crushed like him, just out of his reach, tempting him as if to say; _struggle. You won't make it_. What would they think of that? Would laugh, maybe. Laugh at his attempts to remember them.

Tiso blinked. Then he said, weaker, "I did look."

"You did not look at me," the Beast snarled back, in the voice of someone long dead. "You had your eyes closed. You looked up and closed your eyes. What fool calls himself a warrior if he can't even look death in the eyes?"

"I am a warrior," Tiso heard himself say, gasped as the claw sunk deeper, deeper, until he was sure the Beast's claw was through him. "I did this for you -- you know I did, I've been doing this for us --"

The Beast lifted him then, slammed him back against the ground until Tiso saw white, black dots scattered across his vision. "For what?!" It bellowed. "For what, to make me proud? Is that what you wanted, Tiso? To make me proud?!"

Fire, like a dying field set ablaze. Ash so thick it almost looked like snow. Thousands of voices of his siblings, screaming, wanting to be heard. Mother never looks at you, does she? Little ant standing, king of the hill, but face blurred. Dead friend you abandoned. Look at you. You're forgettable.

And then the pressure in his chest was gone and the coliseum died away, hollering ash replacing its shrieks. He opened his eyes and it was Oro standing there now, years of weathered hatred fuming in his eyes. In his hands he carried his nail and it was clotted with visage.

He tried to move. But his legs couldn't work and as Tiso looked down, the cracks in his chest seemed to widen. "Please," he gasped.

Oro spoke. "You did not do it for me," he said, voice so thick in rage it was almost like syrup. He took another step and Tiso could see the orange in his eyes now, little dots of inferno behind the mask. "If you had half the courtesy you would've taken that shield and buried it, carcass."

"I carry it for you," Tiso heaved, trying to close his eyes. He knew what would happen -- why should he see it come? But whatever seized him would not let him move. Oro advanced and Tiso could not look away. "I do not abuse it -- I carry it for your memory --!"

The nail stabbed down into the ground. Tiso could feel it already, as if the blow was heavy enough to shake the ground. "Because you don't remember my face? Do you even remember what I looked like?!" Oro roared. "You looked away, Tiso. You took my shield and looked away."

"I didn't -- I looked, I --"

Orange fury, forgotten in time. A temple, a seal. _KILL,_ something screamed. Standing at the edge of a lake, looking upon its tranquil surface. Thinking, when was the last time he knew peace? Was it sitting by their corpse? Or was it when he was falling deliriously down from the coliseum, too much in pain to think about anything else? 

_YOU'VE FORGOTTEN ME._

Tiso heaved breath. Looked up to Oro's accusing form, the nail dragging closer. _KILL,_ the voice chanted and he knew what would happen next.

Yet he spoke anyways. "I just -- I didn't want you to go." 

Silence. The worst noise. 

"Liar," Oro said and stabbed down.

* * *

Tiso woke up with a gasp.

And realized he was alive. No blade pierced his shell nor claw in his guts. No voices chanted, no orange flared in his vision. In fact the only thing bothering him was the cold of the wind on his antennas. His arms were frigid, wrapped around his chest, and when Tiso flexed his fingers he could not feel them. His blankets must have fallen off while he was sleeping. 

He was alive then.

He flexed his fingers again, just to remind himself of that. Not dead. Alive. It was merely a dream. A bloody _stupid_ dream, he thought angrily as he started to shift into a more comfortable position. He had it about every night now, as if his brain couldn’t provide him with any other annoyances. All orange and sickness. A horrid nightmare, really, but uncreative now since he knew how it went. Same old fear, same old anger. He could easily ignore it. 

( _do you even remember what I looked like?)_

He groaned and opened his eyes.

Over him, two inquisitive holes stared back.

Tiso yelped. He was ashamed to say his first reaction was violence; he swung his fist and scrambled back in the blankets before his brain caught up and thought, _hey wait, I know this bug_. But by then it was too late and his fist cracked into the side of their shell with a snap. The familiar bug reeled back and hit the wall. A vase shattered as they flew back; another fell over and spilled water across the carpet floor. As he watched in half-horror, they staggered and _glared_ across the room, drawing their nail with a snick.

And was promptly stopped from skewering Tiso by the sound of dark laughter. Tiso froze. Forcing his fists open, he turned. Oro was hunched where he always was, chuckles filling his tone when he spoke. "I did warn you," the nailmaster said to the pale thing. "He's a jumpy bastard."

The wanderer -- -- pale thing, warrior from Dirtmouth, Tiso remembered -- stared; then slowly, with an emotion he only could describe as reluctance, sheathed their nail. They drew near him again and then without warning, poked him.

" _Hey_ ," Tiso growled, but the pale thing was not intimidated in the slightest. He turned to Oro then, who was still watching this unfold with delighted eyes. "Are you just going to let this fly?"

Oro ignored him. "I told you he was unfortunately alive," he addressed the wanderer. "Fell from the coliseum not too far from here. I assume you two know each other?”

Another poke. Tiso scowled. “We’ve met a few times,” he said and hissed as the brat poked him again. “Oy, _knock it off_ before I tap you one again.”

That got through. The little pest stopped their prodding of Tiso and turned back. What gaze they fixed on Oro now, Tiso could not see, but Oro countered it immediately. “Surprised, aren’t you?” The nailmaster retorted.

The wanderer crossed their stubs. They did not have to speak to imply their suspicion.

Oro took it nicely, or well, better than he took Tiso’s insults. The large bug harrumphed. “Yes, I took care of him.”

The wanderer kept staring.

“No, I’m not going to _eat_ him. Look at him. He’s a scrawny prick. Barely worth a meal, nevermind the headache you’ll get from the effort.”

“Excuse me?” Tiso protested.

Oro’s defence still hadn’t sated the little pest though. The wanderer drew their nail again, but this time it was only to point at Tiso. Tiso blanched under the shine of the weapon. 

“Oh, get that out of his face. I mean him no ill will. I’ve been caring for the bastard,” Oro snorted. “Do you take me as someone who harbours corpses as decoration? That's more my brother's style, as you well know."

 _Brother?_ “Wait, wait, wait,” Tiso interrupted, feeling completely lost to this one-sided argument he was witnessing. “You have a brother?”

Oro looked decidedly blank for a moment. Then he said, “No.”

The wanderer lowered their nail. Deliberately, they matched Oro’s glare with their own as they tapped the blade’s tip twice on the ground. Tiso was sure he saw the larger bug flinch with every tap.

Tiso absorbed that. Then he said, “Two brothers?”

The wanderer nodded.

Tiso tried to picture that. Two more gruff Oros, snapping at each other and being generally miserable triplets. It was hard to imagine. “Are they like him?” He asked the wanderer. “Big and brutish? Or did I get stuck with the dismal brother?”

He was not able to get an answer. Before the wanderer could reply, Oro’s voice ripped through the silence. “My family matters is none of your _business_ ,” he snarled -- _you did not do it for me,_ the voice in Tiso’s head snarled in the same tone and he found himself stunned with his retort frozen in his throat. The wanderer was less affected, although their stance suddenly took on a more braced position. But as soon as the hostility seized the nailmaster it was gone, and the older bug hunched over with a sigh. “Wanderer, you’ve had your fun. Leave the idiot alone and attend what you’re truly here for.”

Silence. Tiso watched wordlessly, and finally the wanderer rose to a relaxed position. They did not immediately move though, and he finally found his voice. “What are you here for anyways, little pest? Clearly you two know each other.”

The thing stared. It did not quite do much else, Tiso admitted, empty eyes like pits and no other distinguishable face features. Where other bugs would have mandibles grating or antennas flicking in annoyance, this bug was a clean slate. Still, Tiso got the impression they were annoyed anyways. With a flick of their nail, they pointed towards Oro.

Tiso looked to Oro too. The nailmaster huffed. “They wish for me to train them,” he clarified. “Been here about six times already trying to nag it out of me. Like I said before,” and this was aimed towards the little wanderer, who had already squared themselves in the room, “I do not train those without strength, or Geo. You have one but not the kind that will fill my pockets.”

Tiso blinked. Then he looked back at the wanderer. “You want _him_ ,” and he stressed the word as if it were a curse. In the background, Oro muttered something like, _here we go,_ and lowered his face into his hands. “To train _you_?”

The wanderer gazed back, emotionless. 

That said enough. Tiso shook his head. “You’d learn more from an injured Hopper,” he told them and leaned back. 

The wanderer tilted their head.

“I’m serious,” Tiso replied. “A Hopper has some grace. This brute,” and he half-heartedly gestured to the nailmaster’s direction, who was sighing in his hands, “Has none. Gods, you may be better off examining the shambling corpses wandering those crossroads for training purposes.”

“You have not even seen me in combat.”

“Yes. But I know grace,” Tiso insisted. “And you have none.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Oro interrupted and stood, patting the wanderer aside as if they were merely an ornament in the way. What was more shocking was that the wanderer let them, adbit with a reluctance Tiso figured was bred out of pure spite. “You, lie up. I can see where you ripped the paste off you from here.”

“I haven’t touched it,” Tiso argued back but sat up anyways, kicking the blankets off him. To the wanderer he asked, “So how much is he charging?”

The wanderer glared towards Oro’s direction. Eventually, as the gaze did not cease from his forehead, Oro said grudgingly, “800. A pupil must pay 800.” 

“Wow.” He flinched at Oro’s touch on his wound and gritted his mandibles as it continued not so kindly. “800. Ha. You might as well go to the coliseum and get the knowledge slapped into you.” 

Oro’s next question was flabbergasted, as if the nailmaster couldn’t believe the words Tiso was saying. “You’re advocating for the coliseum still, even though you look like this?” 

Tiso waved his dismissal away. “I’m just saying. Entry fee there is only 100 for the first trial.” He argued. “They pay you if you win too, so like? Win-win, compared to dealing with this groucho here.”

The wanderer seemed to be considering that. Oro noticed. “Do not listen to the idiot,” he warned. “You may end up looking like him and I will not heal your cracked chitin if I find you drowning in the acid pools.” 

“No, do listen to the idiot,” Tiso said. The wanderer’s gaze shot back to him. “Have you actually ever seen any of this guy’s pupils? Like, ever? Where are they?”

Oro, deadpan, said, “I live in the ashen ruins of a kingdom’s end.”

“Perhaps he kills them,” Tiso whispered to the wanderer conspiratorially. That earned him a slap of paste into the chest and he grunted, half-laughing. “Oh, come-on, it’s not so far-fetched, is it?”

“I do not kill my pupils,” Oro huffed, but there was good humour in his voice. “I will kill this patient, if he continues to chase away business.” 

“See! Threats of violence, on an innocent bug lying defenseless.”

“Should I give you your shield back then, before I strike you down?”

The wanderer (having enough of their nonsense it seemed) finally slouched, as if giving a full-body sigh. They sheathed their nail onto their back and passed them towards the door, pausing only to poke Tiso one last time before their figure was swallowed by the blowing ash outside. Both watched them go, and when it was certain they were not returning, Tiso relaxed back into his blankets with a hum of content. “Whoops,” he said.

“I should fling you to join them,” Oro grumbled but with a final flick of his hand the paste was completed and he stood back up with little aggression. “Do you intend on chasing away all business I receive?”

“The pest? Oh, they’ll be back. You already know that,” Tiso replied. Oro made a grunting noise but conceded with a nod anyways. “Perhaps then you’ll stop charging ridiculous prices for training when they do, hm?”

“800 is not ridiculous.”

“In this ruin, it is. What do you even mean to do with the geo, hm?” Tiso rolled his eyes. “There is not a single store open in this blasted waste. Even the ugly town above its corpse had no places open to business when I passed through it. Unless you also multi-task as a merchant?”

“There are other uses for geo,” Oro replied.

“Oh, gods, you elitist,” Tiso said. “If you start preaching sentimental value I think I will drag myself back to the acid pools and drown myself.”

Oro laughed.

And not a dark laugh either, but a light chuckle that immediately snapped off once Oro realized what he had done. The nailmaster turned away quickly, but the effect of his mistake had already set into the room. "I'm going to train," the bug said gruffly before Tiso could open his mouth and call him out on it. "Rest."

 _Hm,_ Tiso thought as the nailmaster left. _So he can laugh._

The thought warmed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, Tiso doesn't fall off a roof. Not quite yet. 
> 
> Here's Ghost! Don't worry, they'll be back. Begrudgingly.


End file.
